Of Superheros and Shenanigans
by Fearlee
Summary: One-shots of the Hetalia gang, ranging from fluffy fun chapters to some with serious, slightly darker themes. Chapter 6: the Nordics give Canada a hands-on history lesson, much to the terror of England and the amusement of America.
1. World Conference

Hi there! This is my first Hetalia fanfic, but it's just going to be one-shots of little ideas that I have. There will be future chapters, some definitely longer than this one, but never shorter. Only nation names used. I have some ideas for funny chapters, like this one, but I also have some ideas for more serious subjects. Being a history major, I'll probably dabble with some true events and each country's reaction to them. Anyhoo, thanks for reading this author's note if you've come this far, and enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, no matter how much I wish I did.

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England was beginning to wonder why they even held these world conferences in the first place. They could hardly get past the opening remarks without dissolving into bickering. This time, he and France managed not to be the first to argue, but surprisingly China and Japan had started it off…something to do with food prices…

Sitting a few seats down and on the opposite side of the table, England saw Denmark and Norway having a silent dispute as the yelling escalated between the two Asian countries. Norway held a stopwatch and was discreetly pointing at it while Denmark was not-so-discreetly pointing and England and France.

With a soft huff of laughter, England realized that the two Nordic countries had placed bets on this world conference. He wasn't exactly sure who he wanted to win, but he still smiled when Denmark grudgingly handed over an untidy stack of Kroners. Norway raised an eyebrow and carefully disguised the motion of tossing down a drink as a sweep to fix the hair lightly brushing across his forehead. Denmark's expression was torn between a kicked puppy and an angry bear, but he nodded without saying a word.

England rested his chin against one of his hands, and in doing so he caught sight of something going on in the far corner of the room, "_Is that…oh for the love of everything holy…"_ Italy and Romano were crouched over a hotplate, which held a boiling pot of water. Romano was preparing to dump in a box of pasta while Italy neatly diced the tomatoes on a cutting board.

Glancing down at Germany, England saw a dark scowl on his face, and he tapped a middle finger against the oak table. His hard blue eyes flashed between the Italians and the escalating argument between China and Japan as a vein pulsed in his temple. Russia had now joined in the fray, adding little comments that only stoked the flames of the fire without getting burned himself. England knew the blonde haired nation was going to blow his lid soon, but another country beat him to the punch by shouting over the noise.

"DUDES, I CAN TOTALLY FIX THIS!"

China slowly set down his wok as Japan tilted his head in a way that made him look neutral and curious at the same time. Russia looked a little disappointed and leaned back in his chair with a small sigh.

America stood eagerly at the head of the table with that familiar 3,000 megawatt grin and a burning light of excitement in his eyes.

"Oh, bloody hell…" England groaned under his breath when he saw the chalkboard with a white sheet draped over it standing behind America.

The young nation lowered his voice two decibels below shouting before he continued, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you _Superhero Agriculture Man_!" He whisked off the white sheet to reveal a shoddy drawing of a muscular man garbed in a hideous red, green, and blue outfit, complete with go-go boots and a mask to conceal the face, "He's a genetically modified superhero that—"

Germany had begun to rise, no doubt to give his familiar shouting speech that got everyone in line, but England beat him to the punch. It was only a few days after America's independence celebration—that was probably why England suddenly found himself with a short fuse with his former brother (it wasn't that he was irritated with the day. He could actually be proud of America for his independence, but it was the over-the-top, obnoxious way that the young nation went about celebrating that made him grind his teeth).

"BLOODY HELL, AMERICA!" England roared as he slammed his palms against the table, "JUST BECAUSE YOU MANAGED TO ENGINEER CAPTAIN AMERICA IN WORLD WAR TWO, DOESN'T MEAN A GENETICALLY ENGINEERED SUPERHERO WILL SOLVE EVERY OTHER PROBLEM!"

America looked a little taken aback by the outburst, but his grin didn't diminish in the slightest, "Do I smell a little jealously, Iggy?"

England tried to lower his voice, "It's been seventy years, America, and you haven't been able to make a superhero since then. It's not happening, git."

"Watch me."

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Like I said, there will be funny chapters and serious chapters, but all of them will be one-shots. If you really like my work and you have a request, I'll see what I can do to fulfill your wishes :) Please drop a review if you have the time, since I'd really like to hear your feedback on this (being my first Hetalia fic and all that). Also, today, June 6th, 2014...well, it's the 70th anniversary of the D-Day invasion of Europe. Always remember the sacrifices that the young men of our countries have made to protect our ways of life, no matter where you're from.


	2. Football vs Football

Wow, I actually updated in a reasonable amount of time. Thank you to the people who followed and favorited the story! I really appreciate the support! For this chapter, I just thought it would be funny to note the difference between European football and American football, and then the plot bunny just morphed into something else entirely. I wrote this chapter just as a brotherly day with America and England, because despite their differences, they're still brothers to some degree (at least, that's how I picture it in my head-canon).

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Hetalia.

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"Hey, England! I'm totally…why are you dressed like that?"

England turned around and stared at America with horror, "You idiot, I said we were going to play…"

Oh…right…that…

America had on his red, white, and blue tackle gear and cleats. A broad '50' was stamped on both the front and back of his white jersey, and he held his blue and red spangled helmet under one arm while the other held a pointed football.

"Dude, you said we were going to play _football_," America stated when England's silence stretched on, "Why aren't you dressed right? You're totally going to be murdered, bro."

England face-palmed, "America…if I wanted to play that, I would have said _rugby_, even though they really aren't the same. When I said football, I meant…what do you call it again?"

"That's a _soccer_ ball. You meant that we were playing something as boring as _soccer_? I would've been more excited if you said you wanted me to sample a new muffin recipe! And your muffins suck!"

America effortlessly dodged the soccer ball that England kicked at his face, "They're called scones, you wanker!" He half-yelled at him, "And I distinctly remember you not being able to get enough of them when you were still wetting—"

England barely whipped his head to the side in time to avoid the pointy ball that whistled past his ear. At that point, he had the good sense to start running. After all, he had seen the man tow his Rolls Royce with one hand, and he wasn't ready to start a fight with _that_.

"Come on! Face me like a man!" America shouted after him in fast pursuit, "Or at least as manly as you can be!"

"_Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks_!" England chanted over and over in his head as if it were a desperate prayer. Or maybe a warding spell.

Neither of them worked, since only seconds later a solid mass smashed into England's torso. America's tackle would have hurt regardless, but the thick, plastic padding made it worse. A cloud of dirt rose upon their impact with the ground, and England made a somewhat undignified noise that sounded somewhere between a cough and a yelp. It was in vain that he tried to fight his way out from under the younger, more powerful nation, but he couldn't resist trying.

"Get…_off_…fat-arse." England wheezed out; the combination of the tackle and America's weight making it somewhat difficult to draw in a proper breath.

America put a hand between his shoulder blades and easily pushed down; effectively putting an end to his already useless struggles, "Not until you say your scones suck and that I'm the bestest, most awesome superhero there is!"

"_No_!"

"Last chance!"

"Before _what_, you squash me to death?"

England craned his neck enough to just barely see the stumped look on America's face. Of course—typical America. He would chase something from heaven to hell with astonishing single-minded determination, but he wouldn't know what to do with it once he got it. The smaller nation tried clawing his way out from under him, but America just put more weight on the hand pinning him. Now in a legitimate struggle to breathe, England stopped moving and put his incredibly vast ocean of intellect to find a way to escape. He was England, after all. No one else could match him with escapes.

Thankfully, with the pause in movement, America lightened the pressure on his back, and England was able to breathe properly again. He cast a quick glance back, which was why he was able to see the horrifying moment of inspiration dawn on America's face. The nation's blue eyes sparkled with mischief behind his half-rimmed spectacles, and did not bode well at all for England.

With his free left hand, America poked England in the side, eliciting a squirm and a sharp, quiet noise of protest from within his chest, "For real: last chance, Iggy. Say that your scones suck and that I'm the bestest, most awesome superhero there is!"

"Even if you correct your grammar, the answer is still _no_." England stubbornly declared.

America immediately dug his fingers into England's side and danced them up and down his torso. England remembered the one time he had tickled colonial America until the little country had begged—absolutely _begged_—for mercy. He wasn't sure if America remembered that and was getting revenge, or if this was just payback for the near slip of those few embarrassing moments as a child. Either way, England couldn't stop laughing, and he couldn't escape the ridiculous torture.

"Sto-op!" The one syllable word was broken in two from his laughter, "America!"

"Not until you say it!" America sang out as his right hand started to tickle the other side.

With the pressure off his back, England tried to push himself up and out. However, that exposed more skin to be tickled, and America's fingers raced over his tight stomach muscles, "You know, this wouldn't be a problem if you played _real_ football." He teased over the laughter, "Too much padding to bypass!"

England twisted, writhed, and thrashed about in a complete instinctual way to escape, but America wasn't about to budge. Finally, when he was gasping for air, his face was red, and tears of laughter were forced from his hazel eyes, he gave in.

"M-my scones are t-terrible," England gasped, "And you're a he-hero!"

America paused, but his fingers lingered on his sides, "Hmm…that's awfully close, Iggy, but not quite. I'll let you go on the scones, but you need to fix that last part. I'm not just a hero…" He trailed off in a tone that prompted England to finish.

Damn. Well, he almost got away with it.

"You're the most awesome superhero there is." England grudgingly mumbled into the lush grass.

"I think you need to work on your enunciation and volume, but I'll take it!" America happily proclaimed, and finally removed his gargantuan body.

England rolled over to his back to catch his breath for a moment, but America grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet, "Bloody—"

"Come on," America interrupted; slipping out of his star-spangled jersey in order to shed his thick tackle gear underneath, "Let's play some _football_." Once out of the heavy padding, America trotted over to retrieve England's football as he tugged his jersey back on.

England stood in place with a puzzled smile on his face. America was…well, plenty of insults that all the languages in the world couldn't cover, never mind just the English ones, but he had his redeeming qualities. Granted, he couldn't match the list of insults with them, but nonetheless, they were there. In this case, his ability to forgive and concede to play a game he didn't much care for was pretty amazing.

America alternated bouncing the black and white ball between his knees and his feet as he walked back towards England, "Ready to get your ass kicked?"

England smiled in return, in part because America's attitude could at time be infectious, but also because he was about to get revenge for the tickle torture. As fit as America was, England was outright _better_ at the sport than him. An hour later found the pair sprawled on their backs in opposite directions; the football resting gently in the back of America's goal.

"Next week we're playing _my_ football," America groused, "Then we'll see whose ass gets kicked."

"Your football is harder to play one-on-one." England pointed out absentmindedly; thinking that one of the clouds above them looked like a tea kettle.

"Huh…good point…hey! What if we get France, Germany, Italy, and a bunch of others to play?! We could do Allies vs Axis all over again, only with a fun game instead of war!"

England rolled his eyes, "You know how sensitive Germany is about that time. Besides, Italy would run the second the whistle blew, France would fake an injury after the first few tackles, Japan would be confused about everything—since it _is_ bloody confusing—and Russia would switch sides in the middle of the game depending on who was winning or losing."

"…but you and I would stay on the same side, right bro?"

England gave a good-natured sigh, "Yes, we would."

After a few seconds, America slapped him on the shoulder, "Hey! Don't you dare leave me hanging, or I'll sit on you again."

England realized that America had held his hand out for a high-five, and he lazily slapped it, "No need to pull out the big guns for something like that. Happy now?"

"We should go get some burgers or something. I'm hungry."

With another sigh, England smacked America's shoulder and pushed himself upright, "Fine, we'll find a burger place for you and a café for me."

"A café? That's boring."

"The only other alternative is that I cook for you."

America was up and running in the blink of an eye, "No way, dude! Burgers are on me today!"

England knew it was useless to shout after him, or even to give chase. America would order burgers for him, he would refuse (he'd be fine with his tea and crumpets), and America would wind up inhaling the extra burgers anyway. Pushing himself to his feet, England began a light jog in the direction of his favorite café. Maybe if he was lucky, he would be almost finished with his meal by the time America found him.

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So yeah, I had a lot of fun writing this. I'm not exactly sure which one-shot I'm going to write next (since I have multiple plot bunnies jumping around here), but it will probably be a more serious one. Also, I have realized that most of my plot bunnies have America in them. I know being an American and all makes me biased, but I really think he's a complex character (like most of the countries). I guess to get to my point already, I apologize in advance for having a lot of chapters with annoying America. Thank you for reading, and please drop a review if you have time!


	3. Russian Winter

Hiya guys! This is a short chapter, and a serious one, but one that I felt that needed writing. I know Russia can be way more creepy and menacing than how I wrote him, but being a one-shot and all, I hope this will suffice. I'm not sure what the next chapter will be, but I have a few ideas, one of which will hopefully be posted in a week-ish time.

Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine T.T

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Snow swirled angrily in the air, the wind howled like a dying wolf, and the gunfire from his troops and artillery fired in nonstop pops and booms. Russia smiled with perverse delight at the sounds of war in Stalingrad. His boss was very keen not to lose this battle, and his troops were digging in wonderfully against the Germans. An artillery shell exploded close to Russia, but he didn't even flinch from the impact.

The wind blew snow harshly into the face of the enemy, and in the distance, Russia could see the ghostly image of General Winter. His rugged face nodded once at him before he faded entirely into the storm.

His smile grew a little wider as he pulled his sword free from its sheath. The Germans were flagging and failing now. So maybe Russia had been mad at how quickly France had been defeated. It certainly gave Germany more men to push across his borders and into his own lands, despite their nonaggression pact.

But that didn't matter now.

Russia had him now. Germany at least had the sense to dress warmer than an average soldier, but it was nowhere near enough to keep out the eternal Russian cold.

Germany nearly dispatched a Russian soldier with his pistol, but he didn't have time to turn around to face his new attacker. Russia held his steel sword to Germany's bare throat; the metal blade just barely kissing his pale skin. The blonde haired nation froze at the touch, but he did not say a word to beg for his life.

It was okay. That would change soon.

"No one ever learns from history," Russia whispered closely into Germany's ear, "They all make the same mistake you did."

He paused to see if Germany would ask where he had failed, but he stubbornly remained silent, which left Russia to answer his own statement.

"You _never_ invade Russia during the winter."

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Like I said, I know this is a short chapter, and a serious one at that, but I just felt the need to write it. Also, being a history major and all, do you realize how many freaking leaders and generals have made this same mistake?! Invading Russia is just bound to fail, because when winter comes, you're screwed. There just isn't enough money to give basic infantry the proper attire for death with the Russian cold. So anyways, thanks for reading, and I'd love to hear your feedback!


	4. Aftermath of Berlin

This chapter is a little collection of one-shots from Germany's point of view after WWII. Like the last chapter, it's more serious, but it has some light-hearted moments. I'm fairly certain most of this is historically accurate, but please, by all means let me know if something isn't. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. :(

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Germany stared out at the ruins of his city with tight frown knitted on his brow. A hard stone of despair dropped into his stomach with the knowledge that countless other cities and towns were the exact same. Actually…all of Europe…

"Germany? Are you…alright?"

The blonde haired nation didn't bother to turn around. He knew that voice too well. The voice that, twenty years ago, had offered a cease-fire on Christmas.

England approached from behind on Germany's left side. When Germany didn't reply, England took the hint and stood in silence as they both looked out over the rubble of a once bustling, prosperous city.

"What will happen now?" Germany finally asked after a few minutes had passed.

England put his hands into the pockets of his green military uniform, "It won't be like the last war. France is too weak to make the same demands. I think I heard someone say that it wasn't two world wars. It was the Great War: Part I and Part II. We won't make the same mistakes again."

"France may be too weak," Germany agreed, "But Russia isn't. I know what he wants. He would see everything German burned to ashes on the ground if he had his way."

"America won't let that happen. You know how he feels about Russia. America is already making arrangements to preserve as much as he can. He's going to keep Russia as far back as possible."

Germany swallowed hard, but no tears came to his blue eyes, "Russia already has my brother. My eastern half."

England sighed through his nose, "I know. Your boss did a good job of making Russia hate all things German. Russia won't let go for a long time."

"So what now? You did not answer my question clearly."

The older nation was quiet for another moment before he solemnly answered, "We rebuild. We make our cities great again, and better than before. We acknowledge that Russia is a powerful new threat, and we do not have the strength to oppose him. As much as it pains me to say it, we need to let America step in and take care of things. While you, me, France, Italy, and the others recover, we need to let the git handle the problems we can't."

"Rebuild…and make ourselves better…" Germany quietly repeated.

England forced out a small smile, "Destruction tends to be a good opportunity to renovate. Granted, this war destroyed more, but we can move past it like we always have."

Germany stared out at the ruins of Dresden, turned to England, and shook his head, "No. Moving past implies that we will leave this all behind us. We can never forget what happened. Never forget, so we will never repeat."

They both stared out into the rubble again, and England slowly nodded, "Never forget, never repeat."

"You have many cities that look like this, don't you?"

"London is the worst, but not as bad as this."

Germany bowed his head with clenched fists, "Never forget, never repeat." He swore to himself in a whisper.

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England was right when he said that they were too weak to oppose Russia. Germany felt his people slowly starving with the Russian roadblocks cutting off Berlin from supplies. It had been awhile since he had seen anyone (other than Russia, at least). Italy had his own country to rebuild as well. Japan was still recovering from the atomic bombs. Technically, Germany had been divided among the allies, but France, England, and America had yet to show their faces.

Hunger twisted in Germany's stomach, as it had for the last three days. His people were already so beaten down by the war, and many of them had not had any part in it. The hungry faces of children haunted Germany wherever he turned. Honestly, that hurt him more than the pain in his stomach. He needed to help his people…but how? He couldn't—

A hum began to fill the air, and everyone froze at the sound. The sound of aircraft was all too familiar to them, and was always a noise that meant death was soon to follow. Before Germany could shout for everyone to take cover, two planes broke through the gray clouds from above. He couldn't bring his jaw back up from his feet when he saw an American flag stamped on the side of one and a British flag on the side of the other. They began to descend towards the airport, but Germany was already sprinting for all he was worth with adrenaline practically giving his feet wings.

He skidded to a halt at the same time the first plane came to a stop. The other plane had to circle around to try again (most likely because they realized the runway was too small for both of them to land at the same time), but would be joining them in a few more minutes.

America leapt out of his plane clad in his familiar bomber jacket, half-rimmed spectacles, and larger-than-life grin, "Germany! It's been awhile, dude. You look skinny."

Germany narrowed his eyes ever so slightly at the powerful young nation, "America. What are you doing here?"

"I mean, I know Russia and the others have been picking at you like vultures would eat a piece of dead meat, but I figured—"

"_What_ are you doing here?" Germany interrupted with poorly concealed frustration.

America looked a little lost for a moment before his face lit up again, "Oh yeah! So England and I heard that Russia was being a total jerk, and we decided that he couldn't let him get away with that. You know, since this part is our half of you and all. Anyways, we couldn't abandon you, so we came to help you!"

Germany couldn't answer due to the roaring plane engine that landed behind America's plane. From the cockpit of that plane came England, who looked slightly annoyed. In the back of his mind, Germany realized that England's plane had been in front of America on the way in. America must have edged England out to get into the airstrip first, thus ticking off England.

"If the look on your face is anything to go by," England stated, "America hasn't properly explained what we're doing here. First things first though: we need some strong, able-bodied men to get the supplies off our planes. There are going to be at least twenty more coming in today, and we'll need as much runway space as we can."

At Germany's stare, England smacked his forehead, "And there I go not explaining it properly either. You see—"

"We brought a bunch of stuff to keep everyone alive and kicking!" America excitedly interrupted, "Come on, let's start moving stuff!" He flung open the cargo door on his plane, and Germany couldn't feel himself moving forward as he approached the aircraft.

Flour, wheat, powdered milk, potatoes, lard, cereal…

"America and I are airlifting supplies into Berlin," England softly explained, "My boys back home have done their homework, and we've rationed out how much each person will eat in a day, how many planes per day can fly in, how many tons we can carry, etcetera. We're not saying that everyone will be fat and happy—far from it, actually—but people aren't going to starve to death. We'll make sure of that."

America lifted God knew how many tons when he hoisted a ridiculous amount of stacked boxes onto his shoulder, "So where should we put this stuff anyways? The next planes will get here soon, and those have the meat, fish, and fuel aboard them, so we need to get moving."

Germany might have been in severe danger of crying if it hadn't been for England reprimanding his former brother in a shout, "America, you git! Don't carry so much! The last thing we need is for stuff to fall and break! Everything has been rationed just right, and if you mess things up, you'll be making the extra flights out here!"

After a moment, Germany was able to pull himself together and round up as many men as he could to unload the two planes. As the day went on, more and more planes came in. America and England helped unload every one of them right beside Germany.

It was strange how just three years before, the three of them had been at each other's throats and would have tripped one up sooner than give a helping hand. However, now they were working seamlessly together. Hell, America and England weren't making any kind of profit off this. They were spending the fuel for the planes and their own resources to feed a city of over two million people…because they couldn't leave them behind.

When the last plane was unloaded, and America was clambering back into his own personal aircraft, Germany looked out at all what had been brought. It was nowhere near enough to feed his city, but the promise of many, many more planes gave him hope. Hope that he hadn't felt in three years.

Germany felt a pair of eyes on him, and he turned to find England staring at him with a small smile, "You look like you're in a bit of a shock."

"I was…taken off-guard," He reluctantly admitted, "Thank you, England. Thank you for helping my people."

England shrugged, the same smile still in place, "I told you it wouldn't be the same as the last war. I'll see you around, Germany."

* * *

"Uncle Wiggly Wings!"

"The Chocolate Flier!"

Germany only had that two-second warning before a solid object crashed down on his head. Children scrambled as more objects fell in little homemade parachutes, so he refrained from swearing aloud. He was beyond thankful for the assistance from the two blonde nations (not that he would admit that to anyone), but if America would stop dropping chocolate bars on his head during the random fly-bys, he would be a little happier.

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That last bit is really based on true events. A pilot in the Berlin Airlift dropped chocolates in homemade parachutes for the kids. It sounded like something America would do, and naturally, he would somehow know where Germany was too so he could drop chocolate on him XD Anyhoo, I've run out of plot bunnies at this time, so if anyone has any requests, I'll see what I can do! Thank you for reading!

Fearlee


	5. Long Lost Vinland

Just some background on this chapter: Vinland was a land discovered by Vikings around 900ish AD (Norwegian Vikings to be more specific). It was North American, though it's uncertain if it was present day Canadian or American. Anyways, Vinland didn't last long. At the request of _**Dark Meow Meow Kitten of Doom**_(whose head cannon is that Canada is actually a long-lost brother of the Nordics), I have written this chapter. I hope this is to your satisfaction, and thank you for the request! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia

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Olympics were being held at Canada's place this year. Denmark couldn't help but notice that the beer here had a distinct maple syrup taste, but that was okay. So long as the stuff got him drunk at the end of the day, he was chill.

However, Canada, the poor, uninformed soul, didn't know the proper serving size for beer. Denmark had rummaged through the kitchens and the attic looking for more beer, but nothing had yielded alcohol. Now as he trotted down the steps into the cellars, a disapproving voice made him jump.

"Mr. Denmark, you shouldn't be going through Mr. Canada's things." Finland reprimanded from the top of the stairs.

"Oh don't be such a spoil-sport," Denmark jovially returned as he continued to the bottom, "Besides, I bet Canada's good stash is down here."

Finland looked around uncertainly and carefully descended from the stairs, not out of want of Canada's good beer, but to keep an eye on Denmark if the man found it.

Unlike America's cellars, Canada didn't have a single cobweb or dust bunny in sight. All his items were neatly stacked in shelves along the walls, and all were well-looked after…even the items that had clearly been from his early days as a country.

"Ah! Here we go!" Denmark brightly exclaimed when he saw glass bottles stacked along the wall.

"Mr. Denmark…" Finland trailed off in a useless, worried warning.

"Brighten up! Come on, let's share a drink and—wait a second, this is all maple syrup!"

Finland edged closer, and he couldn't help the smile that broke out, "Now that I think about it, I can't believe you thought you were going to find something down here."

"That's because I found it first and hid it." Finland jumped a mile in the air while Denmark narrowed his eyes at the shadow against the wall that leaned forward in the light, "I knew Denmark would be down here, and Canada's hospitality shouldn't be abused."

"You never were any fun, were you, Sweden?"

Sweden gave Denmark a level look (which really looked like a high-powered glare), and crossed his arms, "You won't be touching Mr. Canada's beer."

"NORWAYYYYY!"

A loud, echoed shout split the air before Denmark could contemplate lunging for the beer. Iceland fell out from the laundry chute and into large bin of dirty sheets. He had barely pushed himself upright when Norway fell from the chute and crashed down on top of him.

"GET OFF! GET _OFF_!" Iceland pummeled his brother with what were meant to be hard punches, but Norway brushed them off like he was being pelted with flies.

"Relax, little brother," Norway chided, "It was an accident."

Iceland threw himself from the laundry bin, "Accident? An accident is what you're calling it?! You pushed me, and then you lost your balance and fell!"

"Accident, pushing, falling—it all ended up the same, didn't it? Oh, hello brothers."

Denmark was poorly concealing his snickers, Sweden was impassive as ever, and Finland looked like he wanted to make sure Iceland was okay, but he didn't dare go near the young hotheaded nation while he was in a mood.

"What are you all doing down here?" Iceland snapped to try and cover his embarrassment at the fall everyone had seen.

"Keeping Denmark from the beer." Sweden and Finland simultaneously answered.

"Figures," Norway snorted, "Hey, Denmark, want to check out the laundry chutes? I can show you how they work."

"He's just going to push you down—damn it!" Iceland's warning was cut off when he tripped over a chest that had been concealed in the dimly lit corner of the cellar.

Sweden leaned back and with a quick flick, the rest of the cellar lights turned on. Iceland angrily rubbed at his foot and shin as he glared at the dusty chest—like it had been placed there on purpose to make his day worse.

"Something dusty? In Canada's house?" Denmark commented out loud, "I wonder what's in it."

"Mr. Denmark, you shouldn't be prying in Mr. Canada's things!" Finland worried as the older country crouched down in front of the chest.

"I'm not prying if the lock is already broken," Denmark said with a grin, and he ruffled Iceland's silvery blonde hair, "Thanks, squirt!"

Iceland viciously slapped the hand away, but it made no difference to Denmark. Sweden strode forward to outright stop him. Finland followed right behind him. Norway stepped forward to see if Iceland would let him make sure he was okay.

That was why they were all next to each other when Denmark opened the chest.

"What the—"

"How on earth—"

"Where did he—"

"Norway, this kind of looks like your style of junk." Iceland remarked with a frown.

Denmark removed the Viking helmet from the chest, and Norway gingerly took it, "We all had similar taste at one point or another…but yeah, this looks something like mine."

"This brings back memories," Sweden rumbled as he took out a dusty club and axe, "Remember when we used to beat up England with weapons like these?"

Finland snorted and touched the axe, "We were certainly wild back then, weren't we?"

"I have a better question," Norway interjected, "How does Canada have stuff that looks exactly like our stuff in our basements?"

The sound of the cellar door squeaking open silenced any speculation, and the creaks of someone descending the stairs made them glance around at each other. It was a small staircase, so they had no time to jam all the stuff back into the chest. Besides, the lock was broken, so it would have been eventually traced back to them.

Canada poked his head around the corner, "I thought I heard a yell from the laundry chute. Is everyone…" His normally quiet, timid voice trailed off into complete silence as he realized that the Nordics were holding his things from his private, locked chest.

Norway stood with the Viking helmet still in his hands, "Canada, where did you get all this stuff?"

Canada strode forward and took the helmet with a flustered air, "Oh, i-it's nothing. Just some old artifacts f-from my younger days. Here, l-let me take those." He quickly reclaimed the club and the axe from Sweden and Finland in one hand.

A club and an axe. In one hand. The Nordics had never realized that Canada had such big hands. With two weapons in one hand and the Viking helmet in the other…he looked a little like…

"You're like one of us." Finland whispered.

Forget the smart suit and tie with the glasses. Denmark stood, took the helmet, and promptly put it on Canada's head.

"Oh goodness, no!" Canada protested, "There's really no need for that. Why don't we all go upstairs and join the other countries for an afternoon snack?"

Sweden gripped Canada's right wrist so he couldn't take off the helmet. He pinned America's brother with a hard gaze (again, that looked more like a murderous glare), and Canada shifted with discomfort.

After a moment, Sweden released him with raised eyebrows, "Vinland?"

All jaws dropped, except for Canada who rushed out, "Please, I'm Canada. _Canada_!"

"You're Vinland!" Norway said with wide eyes.

"What do you remember about being Vinland?" Denmark pressed.

Canada was still flustered, but with his hand free, he removed the helmet, "Oh, I don't like to think back to that. I was very young and I had a few wild tendencies that I had to grow out of."

"Oh Canada, don't you know what this means?" Finland exclaimed with delight, "You're our brother! You're like part of the Nordic family! You're part of our family!"

Canada looked like he was about to protest, but he stopped at Finland's last sentence. He first looked uncertain, and then he gave them a soft smile, "The Nordic family?"

"More like an honorary member," Iceland put it, "Or maybe like a long lost brother."

Denmark threw an arm around Canada, "That's right! Come on, I need to show you the awesomeness of being a Nordic. You like drinking, right?"

Finland jumped up on Canada's other side and inquired, "Do you maybe have any museums that could help us prove our relations? Any archeological finds?"

"Don't overwhelm him." Norway scolded when he saw Canada becoming flustered and embarrassed at all the close attention.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know a whole lot about you guys." Canada shyly admitted, "Maybe you could teach me, and I might remember more about my ties to you all?"

"You will be welcome at our house whenever you please." Sweden rumbled.

Norway put the helmet back on Canada's head, and after a moment, gave a hum of approval, "It's fitting. Come on, we have a lot to show you."

* * *

Thank you for reading! If anyone has any requests, just let me know, and I'll see what I can do!


	6. Viking Terrors

This chapter is just a little add-on to the last one. The Nordics teach Canada more about their history, much to the terror of England and the amusement of America.

Disclaimer: Hetalia no es mein.

* * *

America was bored, and patrolling the hallways of the World Conference was the best he could come up with. There were usually some hot babes (err, maids) around to chat up, but nothing had presented itself to him, so he continued to wander aimlessly and without incident…

Until England came tearing around the corner at full speed and crashed right into America. England was knocked flat on his back while America barely moved an inch.

"Bro, what's going on? You look terrible."

England's breath came in large gasps, and there was no small amount of terror on his face when he replied, "The…the Nordics!"

"Okay, what about them?" America pressed.

"Can't talk!" England half-screamed as he scrambled to his feet. He would have taken off at a full sprint if America hadn't grabbed the collar of his suit and man-handled him into a small alcove. It was half-concealed by a hanging flag of Italy, and England seemed to relax ever so slightly when he realized he had a somewhat safe hiding spot.

"Dude, what about the Nordics are you spazzing out about?"

England took a few large, calming breaths before he answered, "You know how they all discovered that Canada was actually at one time Vinland?"

"What's Vinland?"

"Ugh, never mind about that," England groaned, "The point is that the Nordics think Canada is their long lost brother, and they're giving him a live-action history lesson."

America scratched his head, "Which is…umm…what again?"

Now that he looked closer, he could see that England was unbelievably jumpy. America got the feeling that if he poked the man, he would scream like a girl and jump out of his skin.

"Back in the year 1000," England shakily explained, "Those…damn Vikings from the North took a perverse pleasure in beating the living crap out of me and stealing all my gold."

"Dude, that sucks." America laughed.

"SHHH!" England desperately hissed, "Keep it down!" He took another deep breath, "So they've been chasing me around for the last half hour all dressed up in their Viking gear. Even Canada has on a—"

"A Viking helmet with an axe in one hand, a jar of maple syrup in the other, and a bunch of war paint on his face?" America grimly interrupted.

England was shaken out of his jumpy state with a frown, "How in the world did you know that?"

America shuddered, "I didn't just fight you in the War of 1812. I tried to invade Canada, and there's a reason I haven't tried it since. The dude can be scary as shit when he's not being a Canada the friendly ghost."

"Now imagine him with Norway, Denmark, and Sweden in their Viking gear, all chasing me and shouting their bloody war cries!" England's anxiety and volume increased with every word, and he looked on the very of a panic attack by the time he finished.

"That's rough, buddy." America said with real sympathy in his voice for once.

"Where'd he go?!"

"I bet he tried to team up with France."

"We beat the crap out of France too back in the day. You think we should try him next if we can't find the limey bastard?"

"Whatever you guys decide, I'll go along with."

"Let's search the halls first before we move onto France."

America had placed a comforting hand on England's shoulder with his sympathetic words, but now it turned into a steely grip, "Sorry not sorry," He whispered, "But Canada has some bones to pick with me, and I'd rather he not do them while he's in a Viking mindset. Survival of the fittest, you know?"

With that said, America threw England out into the hallway in full view of the Nordics. England promptly stumbled and fell flat on his face.

"Bloody hell, you wanker!" England wailed, and America quietly snickered as he sprinted for all he was worth. A few seconds later, America saw Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and Canada all race past the alcove in their full Viking regalia.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard them round the corner, but he didn't emerge from his spot. America wasn't hiding. Of course not. Someone like him didn't hide. No, he was just…in need of a nice, quiet nap, and his room was too far away. That was why he sat down and leaned his head against the wall of the small space.

No other reason.

No other reason at all.

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Canada successfully fended off the American armies that tried to invade in the War of 1812, which is why there were practically no border changes when it was finally over. America is somewhat embarrassed that someone like Canada beat the crap out of him, so my head cannon is that America just pretends that he can't see Canada most of the time XD as always, thank you for reading, and feel free to request anything!


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